objects / of the futurewho we’re speaking to- or there is no future -- so, like, tough shit -but still your shadowsstill they block usare still eating useven inside the poemits rowdy echoeswe are drowned insidesirens, as I was sayingor, of course, the lawour ruins our octavesyou speaking in them

Monday, November 16, 2009

meanwhile, we were documentariesa code made of letters, likeunaroused by official culture. For some reason, it was 1649,we were trapped inside it, clutchingour most reasonable point of view.I can’t say more / vast territoriesof our singing selves, decommissioned.Maybe it was 2003, or something,I don’t remember, my favourite lawswere just a system of false brainsI recognise that / splintered & obliquesocial utterance flaming malevolencemagnetic, would soon go dancing etc

our minds are clean & pleasantthe sphere of employment- blank -listen, we are your friendsgliding like magazines / weinside each nations serenitysitting near you on the bustotally harmless charactersstrange and flattering numbersseriously, trickling insidewhat we once were / weesoteric in panicswifter than birdsin our social role, objects -

Sunday, November 15, 2009

complaint registered March 18th 1871 what I liked were crumbled octaves, fruit markets xenography, petticoats, reservoirs where mathematical fluid and relics of social movements might no verb: complaint registered Nov 1989we are still in Cimmeria the point is a total reworking of all definitionsthat means history, senses, cellular matterhere primarily for networking, interested in traditional valuesabandoned pubs, tonal constellations, humanitarian interventionwhere known scholars and professionals mightkept alive by musical systemsancient wavelengths, electric liquidsdense silence in city parks

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

hello / we are your life- stop -now it is March 18& we are a syllablelike a non-frequencyour twists & circlesie the gypsy davy- stop -- 71 comments -- we are your octave -- not zombies, sirens -- ie obsolete music -- 1871, march -- choke -

so, I’ve been in the pennwith the rough & rowdyechoes, letters & notes- musical ones -“10, 000 were drowned that never were born”ie register thatvia export of capitalunderstood as the deadencircle us, in a sensewas a mole in the groundno, sorry, I mean a censusI mean the police computeras centre of gravity / irradiated